


Had the River Swelled

by gozenichiji



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Deleted Scene, Gen, Grief, Heavy Angst, Shock, Terminal Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25936033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gozenichiji/pseuds/gozenichiji
Summary: From her parka, she produces a crumpled envelope–across the back, written in a familiar scrawl, is his current address. She wouldn’t admit to snooping, having found multiple on her mom’s desk. The faded text gapes at her, it makes her wonder why this was all that remained of him. The wind blows–unfamiliar, it brushes across her face; it scrapes her cheeks, threatens tears to fall.
Relationships: Alec Hardy & Daisy Hardy, Paul Coates/Alec Hardy
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	Had the River Swelled

**Author's Note:**

> A scene that didn't make the cut into the upcoming chapter: Aware of the Sandbrook case, and suspicious of her father's sudden silence towards her, she makes her way to his home in Broadchurch. What awaits nearly fills her with regret.
> 
> (A nearly hereditary instinct,) She wishes she was wrong.

The sun begins to set, as Daisy Hardy’s phone lights up–she has a Google Alert set for _“sandbrook”_ –though she didn’t need it in this instance; Tess told her that she’d leave that morning to attend the trial. Apparently, they’ve revisited the case, an interrogation finally revealing the people her parents had been hunting down. She switches her phone open, checking her call history if any of them have decided to reach her. 

_[16:22] Mum: wont call for a while, court starts at 5. might be late. x_

She swipes the text aside, an empty screen glaring at her as she sighs.

Weren’t they supposed to be fine now? The case was, as she knew it, good as finished. She frowns, scrolling down further–it’s nearly been two months since she’s last heard from her dad. It wasn’t unusual, however–there was always the occasional voicemail: jabs at her school life, apologies for being too soppy, reassurances that he was fine, _that he didn’t have a broken heart anymore, and they could be a family again, someday._ The last one, she could only imagine. 

If she were to be honest with herself, though, her definition of _ordinary_ had been skewed, ever since the case began, ever since the trail first went cold. Suddenly, her dad didn’t exist; leaving without even a word–all that remained of him, was a ruined reputation she’d hear around school corridors and courtyards. The photos she had of him were newspaper clippings: they weren’t of the person she knew, rather a run-down detective inspector who’d continually let everyone down. 

From there, everything seemed to change; _Dave_ came into their lives, living as if Alec Hardy never existed–replaced by someone she hardly knew, someone that made her mom happy, at least. She didn’t mind all that–given the nature of their jobs, volatile as they are–but, refusing to bring it up, it eats away at her, knowing that there were many things they didn’t think she was ready to hear. 

It seemed to take another turn, however, as an article from the _Broadchurch ECHO_ circulates online–an interview with D.I. Hardy, shedding further light on the scandal that had surrounded the case at the time. As it has with nearly every article covering it, the story is retold as follows: a high-profile missing persons report, a child murder suspect, essential evidence is lost, a killer runs free. Yet this time, it is not her dad who is to blame, rather a subordinate he chooses to remain unnamed. How much more was there left to uncover?  
Frustrated, she opens her gallery, browsing as her thumb stops at the last picture they’ve taken. She realizes, once more, that it has been long since they spent time like this. The image gives her a vague recollection of what had happened since then. She tells him off for being fussy, for being soppy–she’s much older now, she says. He mentions that he’s met someone new; he shows her a picture despite the glances of awkwardness and poorly-concealed envy she feels off her mom. Commenting that he seems fun to be with, he blushes, tells her that it would be great if she’d stay over—Tess only tightens her grip on her wrist. 

She decides she can no longer wait (Fuck what her mom thought)—spending days as she second-guesses herself, each far-flung theory taking a blow at her. Reaching into her closet, she grabs a duffel bag, stuffing a few days of clothes for the trip. She makes it down the stairs to see her half-siblings in the kitchen, uninterested in the sight of Daisy Hardy in travel gear and stuffed luggage. “Tell Mum, that I’ll be leaving for the weekend.” She mumbles as she ravages through the pantry, stuffing snacks into her bag. They don’t say anything back, possibly from the reluctance of interaction, or quiet awe at this somewhat display of teenage rebellion. Shrugging it off, she doubts they’ll even acknowledge it. 

“Why?”

“Family...stuff. From my dad’s side.”

Grabbing a jacket from the rack, she slams the door behind her. The path outside is uncertain, lonely; she had made sure to pack light, but her belongings seem much heavier this time.

Finding herself at the transportation office, she passes a few bills–produced from her lunch money and part-time jobs for university applications–in exchange for a bus pass. The prospect of commuting across England doesn’t faze her, it’s overcome by a determination one would think she had inherited, a feverishness of one who would never forgive themself. 

As soon as she embarks, she checks the notification on her phone, glaring through her subconsciousness–an article penned by Karen White; a familiar name since the advent of the case.

_SOUTH MERCIA–After a series of interrogations, three people have been convicted for their involvement in the Sandbrook murders in 2012: Lee Ashworth, Claire Ripley, and the father of one of the victims, Ricky Gillespie. Ripley and Gillespie had pleaded guilty prior to the trial, sentencing them to life imprisonment. During the recent court proceedings, Ashworth pleads not guilty to his charges, prompting further investigations to be undergone._

Attached below the first few lines of text, was a blurry photograph of, who she inferred from the description, her dad. It had been obvious that he’d changed over the years they'd spent apart; she knew about his health issues, though she never really grasped how bad it had been since he’d last called. 

_According to various sources, Senior Investigative Officer Alec Hardy has reportedly been under medical retirement from active duty, leaving Detective Sergeants Teresa Henchard and Ellie Miller to testify in court. We ask for the privacy of the families involved in this time..._

It’s a full three–she counts meticulously, on-edge, fear that she’d miss her destination–hours until she reaches Dorset; it’s merely another seventeen minutes until she reaches the postcard, picturesque sight of the small town. From her parka, she produces a crumpled envelope–across the back, written in a familiar scrawl, is his current address. She wouldn’t admit to snooping, having found multiple on her mom’s desk. The faded text gapes at her, it makes her wonder why this was all that remained of him. The wind blows–unfamiliar, it brushes across her face; it scrapes her cheeks, threatens tears to fall. 

Beyond bustling passersby and shimmering attractions, she heads towards a house near the shore–blue, dull, and seemingly abandoned; a car is parked, the only sign that it was being _lived in._ As she approaches the fence, she listens to the roar of sea waves, staring at the house for its lack of light or noise. Anxiety builds up as butterflies flutter in her stomach; she knocks on the curtained glass doors. It takes a short pause as the lock opens, 

“Hey, Dad, er...” 

A man—who she guessed was the person her dad had been seeing for a while—pulls the door open. Visibly dishevelled, he ran across his hair, seeming exhausted.

"You're Paul, right?" The man nods, before his face tenses, as if he's recognized her. The expression was something she'd seen a lot with adults she had grown up with; like she had intruded into a private matter she wouldn't get to know _until she was much older, able to understand._

_Disappointment_. The years kept on passing, yet the same excuse stayed. Daisy had never been keen on the concept of blissful ignorance: age didn’t change the fact that she had to unravel the truth for herself, betrayed, alone. 

“Can I come in? Where's Dad, is he okay—” She climbs the steps, trying to peer inside, though his body was shielding any attempts for her to peek any further, as if they were hiding something; she wasn’t surprised though, they always did, as if it wouldn't make her more worried. 

It did.

Desperation follows suit. “What’s wrong, can I see him–” 

“Daisy, please, you can’t–” His pleading falls upon unwilling ears; trying to control her impatience, she grits her teeth, wondering why they always treated her as if she was unable to pick up on anything, incapable of holding suspicion.

“Why not? I can understand, you know.” She carries with her a stubbornness that would rival even Alec’s as he sighs, going down the steps, gesturing towards the bench. She can’t help but keep her sight on him as she takes a seat.

“Listen to me. Daisy—” His voice softened, hushed; it barely does much to calm the turbulence in her mind.

“What happened?” A tone trying to emerge from one who wanted to break from ignorance; Paul didn’t seem as if he needed to look around to know what she meant. Somberly, he knelt down, desperately attempting to meet her eye-to-eye. 

“Around two months ago, he collapsed at work. When I got the call, they told me it was a heart attack.” He whispers, eyes struggling to face her.

“He’s–” Dying. But he couldn't say that, even to himself. He trails off, knowing that there was no way to nicely put it. 

”They barely got him back, Daisy.” He winces at the statement, the young girl gaping, unable to fully understand what that meant, especially when—

“He was fine, wasn’t he, what was the point of the operation, then?!” There wasn’t.

“The pacemaker malfunctioned.” 

“What?” With that, gone were her reasons to keep on hoping on promises left on voicemail. What did that mean? She felt unable to comprehend, unable to react.

“We found out that it wasn’t inserted properly. He could have had another procedure to fix it, but his condition became so severe from putting it off in the first place, that it would barely help. It was only a while until they told us there’s nothing that they can do. I—“ was devastated, he thinks, but is unable to say—incomparable to the shock she had felt crawl up.

“They listed him for transplant, but he’ll need to get it within the next four months.” She didn’t even think it as hopeful; nevermind if he’d moved up a spot every couple of days. She knew there wasn’t much time left—everything that she had heard seemed foreign, as her ears loudly rang, soon grating into static.

Could be weeks, he adds—she feels as if she’s falling down a void, unable to find words. Stunned, she makes it up the house in a daze, each step making it harder for her to breathe.

For far too long, she finds that she’s wished that she was wrong.

She cuts through musty silence, numbly entering their home, the only accompanying sounds being the whirring and occasional click of equipment. The kitchen counter was littered with medications, occupying the entire space with papers and notes. Blankets strewn over the couch would’ve brought her back to familiarity, had it not been for the wheelchair and crutches behind it. Sighing, she sets her bag aside.

From the bedroom, she hears a faint gasp, confirming her worst fears. As she rushes towards the room, she’s taken aback. It only takes a split-second for her as her heart sinks, realizing what this all meant.

There were several bottles of pills that had occupied the space on the nightstand. She knew—he had to be—asleep, though it seemed as if Alec was long gone from the world. His skin was grey, the bags under his eyes deep, dark as if it had been dusted with soot. Buried under several covers, pillows were propping him up, though it didn’t seem to make him more comfortable. Over his mouth and nose was a mask, plastic tubing leading her eyes to the ventilator placed on the floor. His chest rose and fell slowly, ribs peeking from his shirt. His arms were at his side, bony fists gripping the sheets in pain. His breaths were soft, forcibly pushed into him. 

She’d felt something was wrong when he had been silent all this time, yet; 

He didn’t even look like himself.

 _Despair_. That's all that races through her mind as she staggers towards the bed—before she can call out for him, assure him that she’s here, Paul pulls her back towards the living room, the commotion stirring Alec awake. 

Mumbling a few unintelligible words, he rolls on his side, letting out a soft yelp of pain. His chest begins to heave deeply as he starts choking, gasping as his hands desperately clutched at his shirt. As if by habit, Paul rushes by his side, gently sitting him up against the pillows, hand catching his head when it lolls to the side. He grabs a bottle of tablets, placing two in his hand as he pulls the mask off, helping him take the medication down. The attack seemed to subside as the detective began to calm down, his partner pressing his fingers against his neck, the vein on his forehead protruding like a worm wriggling under skin. 

Daisy, on the other hand, was frozen in her spot, more helpless and alone than she had ever felt, terrified to approach the predicament they had found themselves in. Visibly trembling, panic rises in her chest as her eyes are unable to leave his sight—he’d told her he was fine, and all of this told her that it was a lie.

“Was it always that bad?”  
“Anything at this point could trigger another episode.” He sighs, helplessly looking at her, fighting tears gleaming in his eyes. “He had an incident a few weeks back, and it hasn’t gotten better since."

“Then why is he here, then? Shouldn’t he be somewhere where he gets help—”

“There was nothing they could do! They aren’t sure if he’s strong enough for another operation—”

“So, he came home to die.” She spat out, the last word filled with denial, teardrops streaming down, suffocating as chill overtakes her whole body. “Is that it?”

“Don’t say that!” He hisses, his eyes begging her, as if to believe was to will it true. It only tells her that it simply had confirmed _their_ reality. “We’re going to make it through this. It’s going to be alright.” He places his hands on her shoulders, but she pushes him away, eyes stinging as she turns towards the door.

“No! It isn’t alright, I’m tired of pretending it has since—” She looks at the map of Sandbrook, still hastily taped to the wall before she storms off, eyes burning. She knew she couldn’t expect much from a life where nothing seemed to stay constant, yet she wonders why everything, in its suddenness, had begun to crumble. She didn't have the slightest idea what to do. 

Salt lands on her tongue as she wishes it had come from the nearby ocean, not from tears.

**Author's Note:**

> Daisy angst is my sustenance, methinks.
> 
> Hello, guys! A lot of stuff has been going on, thus the slow progress with the fourth chapter of Heart of a Saint, Life of a Sinner. To those who have been waiting and looking forward, I cannot thank you enough (and hopefully, I do publish soon). I've deleted this from the final draft, but this scene struck me so much, that I've decided to publish it separately. 
> 
> A taster for what is yet to come. (Please do leave a Kudos and comment!)


End file.
